


the passover goat

by eehms



Category: Peaky Blinders (TV)
Genre: Canon Compliant Use Of Slurs, Choking, Deepthroating, Face Slapping, M/M, Porn With Plot, Rimming, Rough Sex, Sex for Favors, Spit As Lube, bisexual Thomas Shelby
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-22
Updated: 2020-05-22
Packaged: 2021-03-03 00:06:46
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,442
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24315517
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/eehms/pseuds/eehms
Summary: In which Tommy also attends Alfie’s Passover dinner and proves himself to be very persuasive.
Relationships: Tommy Shelby/Alfie Solomons
Comments: 11
Kudos: 226





	the passover goat

**Author's Note:**

> hey, remember that scene (and crucial plot point) in 2x05 where alfie invites arthur and billy kitchen to dine with him and then immediately shoots billy and gets arthur arrested? i do too! but my brain short circuited and i set out to write a quick fic about tommy also being in attendance and smooching his way out of it. plot wise doesn't make total sense (WHY would he go there to begin with) but just go with it. i just really wanted alfie to call tommy sweetheart & also a slag. shamelessly stole a bunch of dialogue from the episode, so if it sounds familiar, you probably watch PB too much. (i kid. i do too)
> 
> also set out to be very dom/sub, but it slowly morphed into something... not. dom/sub lite? WITH THAT IN MIND, warnings for some general roughness, some slapping, some choking, etc etc. also, iffy consent re: trading sex for favours/an alliance. it IS 100% consensual but i want that to be clear up front.

Tommy heard a rumour. A rumour about a man he knows, attending a meeting one grey evening, with another man he knows. Of course, both of these men had been accompanied by their usual assortment of goons, which is where Tommy had heard of this rumour to begin with.

Tommy put a lot of stock in rumours, especially ones that came with so much explicit detail. There was always at least a whisper of truth to these types of things, and this one had not come as too much of a surprise to him, afterall. So Sabini and Solomons had united again. Curious, that the man had put so much emphasis on Tommy’s questionable loyalty with regards to shooting Kimber when he was just going to turn around and betray him to a man that he hated. Tommy had been nothing but courteous to Solomons, had treated him with a great deal more respect than he’d been treated in return. Perhaps that should have been a red flag in itself, but Tommy had assumed that had more to do with Solomons being a fucking basketcase with no respect for anyone, than anything else. And the looks the man would give him, whenever Tommy was sat across from him, in his office, as if he wanted to… 

Well, never mind that. Didn’t matter anymore, did it? Solomons was betraying him. Tommy’s source had even produced a copy of the written agreement that the two old enemies had come to. Tommy was being double-crossed over a couple of bookies and a few boundary roads. Had Solomons simply waited a bit longer, Tommy would have been able to provide both of those, once he’d finally finished off Sabini for good. Nonsensical, the man was, but he’d thought with the combination of his hatred for the Italian man coupled with his basic business acumen, he’d have chosen to remain loyal. To make things even more unpleasant, the London gangsters were going to be making their move at a very inconvenient time, what with Campbell lurking around every corner hoping for him to slip up.

He was being backed into a corner, here, with his options severely limited. It was the same shit situation that he’d found himself in when he had first started his London approach. He couldn’t just cut ties, nor violently retaliate. He didn’t have the men, nor the leverage to take on both Sabini and Solomons, not tied up as they were, not with the London coppers in Italian pockets. An alliance with Sabini had always been, and always would be, completely out of the question. Solomons, with his mad fucking temper and his wandering eyes, had never been a desirable business partner, but at least he’d been more amenable to Tommy’s plans than the Italians. Tommy hadn’t even minded the staring, had filed it away in his head as another potential reason for their continued partnership. If Solomons thought he was nice to look at, perhaps he’d remain on his side. He’d underestimated the man’s control over his libido, it seemed.

The rumour, in which he had paid a lot of money for, had been able to tell him of the alliance, of the terms, but not of the plan moving forward. The men had shook hands and parted ways before going into greater detail about how exactly Solomons would fuck the Shelby’s over, likely muttering under their breaths about how much the two men still despised the other. The lack of information as to what the men were planning weighed heavily on him, following him throughout his daily schedule since the moment the rumour had been brought to his attention. He didn’t want to strike, not when nothing had even happened. Solomons was a bastard, and Tommy couldn’t even be completely sure that the man would go through with it. Perhaps he just wanted to fuck around with Sabini? He doubted it, sure, but stranger things had happened. Whoever moved first would be showing his hand, and Tommy didn’t want to show that he knew more than they thought he did, or else he’d lose what little advantage he did have. And so he just waits, waits one day, then two, then it’s been a week, then two weeks, and he’s still had no word from his informants, nothing at all. He’d had a phone call from London, Ollie calling to inquire about some finer detail regarding the shipments, which just sews even further doubt in Tommy’s mind. Why would Solomons be asking about the shipments when he was planning on betraying him? It’s not like their old deal would be honoured by what Shelby’s remained if Tommy was taken out. Tommy was the one with the shipping license— they could depose him, but it weren’t as if they could just ring up the King and get one of their own (which, is another reason why betraying him was a fucking stupid plan, but that was neither here nor there). 

So when Lizzie knocks on the door to his office one evening and informs him that Ollie had called again, asking to set something up, he’s actually a bit relieved. It had taken longer than expected, but it seemed the London gangsters were finally ready to make their move. He wished that he’d heard back from _some_ of his informants, but at least the wait was finally over.

“Alright, Lizzie. Check my schedule, and set something up. And I’ll need some men with me, alright?” He leans back at his desk, keeping his face carefully neutral, trying not to let on anything more. 

“Er, actually,” Lizzie steps further inside the room, and her brow is a bit creased, as if she’s about to say something a bit strange, and she knows it. “London did call, but not for a meeting, and not with you.”

Tommy blinks at her. She seems to be waiting for a reaction, but he’s not sure which one to give, so he remains blank. 

“Mr. Solomons wants to meet with Arthur, invite him to some sort of Passover celebration?” Lizzie meets his eyes, and they share that moment of confusion, of bewilderment at the words as she speaks them. “Apparently they didn’t know how to reach Arthur, so they called here.”

“Alfie Solomons is inviting Arthur to a Passover celebration.” Tommy repeats, weighing it over in his head. This was obviously some sort of ploy. So that was that, Solomons’ betrayal had been confirmed. But he hadn’t expected them to target Arthur. He reaches into his jacket pocket, pulls out his case of cigarettes. He offers one to Lizzie while she’s here, and he lights up both of their cigarettes before he continues speaking, more to himself than anything. “He’s never even met Arthur.”

Lizzie doesn’t respond to that, inhaling deeply on her cigarette with a small shrug of her shoulders. He doesn’t mind, it wasn’t as if Lizzie had a deeper insight on Solomons than he did. 

Tommy sighs, and even the cigarette doesn’t help improve his mood, which is souring rapidly. “Alright. Set it up. I assume they have a date in mind?” Lizzie nods, naming a day a week from then, and Tommy continues, “alright. I’ll talk to Arthur. He’ll be there.”

“Will you still be needing the extra men?” Lizzie ashes the end of her cigarette in the ashtray on his desk, looking ready to return to her duties. 

Tommy turns away from her, turns back to the papers he’d been going over before she’d entered. “I’ll handle the rest.” Dismissed, she doesn’t say anything more, just exits his office, shutting the door behind her. As soon as the door is shut, he lays his head in the hand not holding his cigarette. He’s got a headache quickly developing, and he wants desperately to just go home, his body begging him to go to sleep. He realizes that a real part of him had _actually_ been quietly hoping that Solomons wouldn’t go through with it. He hadn’t held much hope for it, had been mostly sure it would happen, but still, he had hoped. It was that part of him that noticed the way the man would look at him, the part of him that felt his heart rate increase when Solomons wouldn’t avert his eyes when he was caught staring. He really hadn’t minded, he’d tell himself, ignoring that he _really_ hadn’t minded. Ignored the way that Solomons’ piercing gaze would pop into his head at times, like when he’s alone in his bedroom with his hand on his cock. However, by this point in his life, he had become very accustomed to being disappointed by the people around him. There was nothing to do about it, but formulate a plan that would keep him and his family from harm. He has a week to prepare.

As he picks up the phone to dial Arthur, he wonders how much he should tell his brother about what is happening. For now, he’ll wait. With Arthur’s temper, he doesn’t want him doing anything stupid that will negatively impact things. He sighs again, deeper this time in the solitude of his office. It would be a long week.

*

It goes slow, but the week passes. He’d gotten in contact with people in both Solomons’ bakery, and with the Italians, but no one knew anything else. Or, at least, no one was talking about what they knew. The most information he had was from what he’d been told by Lizzie, which was the official party line told to her by Ollie. Solomons wanted to get to know the men in Tommy’s operation, starting with his older brother. Billy Kitchen had also received an invitation, which was yet another odd detail. Why invite Kitchen, if this was all to try and get to know Arthur? Kitchen had no idea why he’d been invited, when Tommy had talked to him over the phone, sounded just as confused about it as Tommy felt. 

And why hadn’t Tommy been invited? If this were a move against the Blinders, surely they would benefit from him being present? The more he thought about it all, the less and less it made sense. Sure, Arthur was the one attending to the London business, making him the closest in terms of physical proximity, but why would Solomons want to deviate from the usual way of business and not invite Tommy? Furthermore, he had trouble believing that Solomons hadn’t known how to reach Arthur. If either Sabini or Solomons didn’t know that Arthur was currently in charge of the Eden Club, they really were losing their grip on their city. He quietly posts more men at the club for that day, trying to cover all of his bases. He’s sending extra men to patrol Camden Town, has a handful extra guarding Ada’s house as well, just in case. 

Plus, of course, Tommy was going with Arthur. He still hadn’t informed his brother about the plot, not confident of Arthur’s ability to resolve the situation with his head the way it has been, even worse now with all the fucking cocaine. No, if this was going to go badly, and it seemed as if it were, he had to be there. Arthur, for all his virtues, was useless in a situation like this. They needed someone with a steady hand. Solomons needed special care, if they were going to de-escalate things. 

And that is what he’s planning on doing. He’s going to find a way to settle Solomons down, because he does still bloody need him. Or, at the very least, he needs not to be actively at war with the Jews. The Shelby’s won’t survive it.

Arthur is bright and cheerful when Tommy arrives in London that afternoon, appearing utterly nonplussed about the strange meeting he’s been summoned to. Tommy had told him enough about it to know the basics, and it just goes to show how thorough Arthur’s lack of survival instinct is that he has no qualms with being invited to a Passover celebration by an insane gangster that he has never met, in said gangster’s base of operations. Tommy’s sure that he’s so on edge because he knows more about what is going on, but he thinks that even if he had no clue about the betrayal, he’d still be at least a bit reluctant to attend. He inspects Arthur’s eyes before they leave for the bakery, just to be sure that he’s not hopped up on something or other. When he finds the man’s pupils looking normal, they share a quick glass of whiskey at the Eden Club, (for good bloody luck), and then they depart.

The bakery, when they arrive, seems no less busy than they usually are, nor any more. From outside, nothing appears to be out of the ordinary at all. Tommy’s got men posted up around the area, a crooked copper or two patrolling nearby in case it goes spectacularly wrong. Tommy glowers in the direction of the building, finishing off the last of his cigarette as they sit there parked across the street. Arthur’s been going on about some woman he’d met at the club, is talking about the women in London being in a whole different realm of depravity, but Tommy’s not been listening the entire while. He’s feeling slightly sick to his stomach, which isn’t an unusual thing for him, but it’s certainly not making things any better. He’s nervous, he realizes, having been so entirely focussed on trying to suss out Solomons’ motivations, his intentions, that he hadn’t given himself time to think on much else. He can see Kitchen waiting near the doors to the bakery, clearly waiting on Arthur’s arrival. Well, no time like the present. He throws his cigarette out the window, then exits the car without another word.

Ollie meets them at the door. Tommy’s very much paying a lot of attention to their situation, but even Arthur seems to notice when Ollie freezes up upon seeing Tommy. “Mr. Shelby,” the boy says, not even attempting to hide his surprise. “You’re not supposed to be here.”

Tommy tilts his head, his cold mask firmly in place. “I’ve never been to a Passover dinner. How could I resist the festivities, eh?”

Ollie twists his fingers between his hands, nervously. “Right.” He draws out the vowel, eyes darting between the three men before him, clearly unsure of what to do. Whatever the plan was, Tommy’s attendance was throwing a wrench into it. “Er, if you gentlemen could wait here, I’ll go and fetch Mr. Solomons.”

“Nonsense, Ollie.” Tommy does his best imitation of a smile, can feel Arthur’s eyes on him, only now starting to recognize the signs of trouble. “Been driving for ages, we’re proper hungry, aren’t we boys?” 

“Damn right, Tom.” Arthur agrees automatically, Billy nodding along a beat later.

“So let’s just get on with it, eh?” Tommy’s tone leaves no room for argument, and he stares the boy down. It’s a bit of a risk, considering that he has no real sway here— Ollie doesn’t work for him, doesn’t have any reason to obey, but he’s looking fidgety enough that he thinks it might just work. 

Ollie just stares back, still twisting his fingers. After a moment's hesitation, where Tommy is sure that he’s going to insist on them waiting there, he nods, jerkily. “Alright. This way, then.” He turns, scampering down the hallway as if he can’t get out of there fast enough. Arthur and Billy turn to Tommy, for answers, for instructions, but Tommy just gestures for them to follow. Arthur nods, throwing his shoulders back as he follows after Ollie, Billy behind, and Tommy in the back. He walks slower than the other men, steps a bit quieter, hoping to keep his presence there a secret for just a bit longer. He knows Ollie’s going to tell the second he sees Solomons, but there was no reason to draw undue attention to himself. 

Ollie leads them through the dusty halls of the bakery, to a wing of the building that Tommy has never been in before. Billy’s there, though, and Billy would know his way around, and would know if Ollie was leading them somewhere like the room they load men into barrels in. Tommy wouldn’t put it past Solomons to have a room specifically for that purpose. They come out into a larger room, full of barrels and dirt, and Ollie’s already halfway across the room before they’ve even fully entered. In front of him, Tommy can see Arthur fiddling with something in his jacket, followed by a quick sniffling that has Tommy rolling his eyes. Of course he’s brought his fucking cocaine.

“Gentlemen! Welcome, welcome!” It’s Solomons’ voice, the unmistakable grumble of his words projecting all the way from where he appears from a doorway on the right. Ollie reaches him just as he comes into view, an imposing figure in black. The man is dressed in a homburg hat, a long black overcoat, with a fine looking white scarf with blue detailing at the ends around his neck. Tommy vaguely recognizes the scarf as something religious, which makes sense, considering the occasion. 

Ollie is putting his mouth next to Solomons’ ear just as the two groups of men come fully into view, and Tommy has just approached close enough to watch the reaction on the Jew’s face as he recognizes Tommy. He schools himself respectably, much better than Ollie had managed, and Tommy can only see the briefest flicker of surprise in his eyes before he’s turning instead to Arthur. 

“You must be Arthur!” Solomons steps forward, grasping at Arthur’s hands with both of his, shaking them in greeting. Tommy doesn’t say a word, just observes as the two men greet each other, wary of his brother’s state of mind.

Despite the cocaine, Arthur is still on his best behaviour, letting the man in close, tells him that it’s a pleasure to meet him as Solomons continues shaking his hands. With a quick glance at Tommy, as if to remind himself why he’s here, Arthur leans his head in close. “Shalom, let me just say. Shalom.” Solomons’ eyebrows raise at this, turning his own head to look at Ollie with what Tommy can only describe as a slightly bewildered expression. Is that guilt? Tommy wonders, still just standing on the outskirts, observing. He doesn’t generally wait to be acknowledged, but Solomons does like to keep him on his toes. He just waits, waits as the two men separate, Solomons giving a cursory greeting to Billy, nowhere near as warm as what he’d shown towards Arthur, before finally, his piercing eyes land on Tommy again. 

“And of course, there’s our Thomas Shelby. Funny, don’t remember your name on the list, mate, just your lovely brother here.” 

A strange thing always happens when Tommy speaks to Solomons. The man’s presence is so formidable, so striking, that whenever he turns his full gaze on Tommy, he can feel the rest of the world shrinking away. It’s not just his physical stature, his broad, strong shoulders, but more a way he holds and conducts himself. He commands the conversation, he commands the attention. He commands _Tommy’s_ attention. Whenever they speak, he finds himself utterly wrapped in whatever it is they’re talking about. He’s almost eager to talk to him— as he always provides a thrill that he doesn’t experience with many other people. Talking to Solomons felt like walking through a minefield. One wrong step, and you’re fucking dead. It was exhilarating. 

“I was hurt, Mr. Solomons. Was waiting day and night by the phone for me own invite. Thought it surely must have been a mistake.” He replies cooly, standing very still, as if to show that he wasn’t going anywhere.

The corners of Solomons’ lips turn up, smirking darkly. _He’s handsome_ , Tommy thinks, coming unprompted from somewhere inside of him. Every man in the room is looking between them, waiting with baited breath. 

“Of course, terribly sorry, mate, for that unfortunate oversight.” Alfie steps closer to Tommy now, still smirking. His approach conjures up animalistic comparisons, appearing more a prowling lion than a man. “You know your pretty face is always welcome at my table.”

Tommy can sense Arthur’s hackles rising at that, but he doesn’t take the bait. He just stares back, unmoving as Alfie comes to a halt directly in front of him. He thinks that the Jew is going to say something else, but he doesn’t, just peers at him through slightly narrowed eyes. Tommy had hoped that at this close a distance, that he’d be able to read something more into his body language, but it proves impossible. They’ve both got their masks on. Nothing to see here.

“Shall we?” Tommy eventually breaks the silence that has washed over the room. His heart is pounding, but no one would be able to tell. His voice is even.

“Right.” Solomons, turning back to Ollie, nods his head, and the boy sets off through a set of open doors immediately. “We shall. This way, gentlemen.”

*

They’re led into another room that Tommy’s never been in, a large room with a long table set out with dinnerware, candles, and (of course) rum. It’s really quite cosy, Tommy thinks, surveying a stack of bread set on the end of the table, wonders about the distinctions between the breads that are produced in this bakery— if in some corner of the building, tucked away somewhere, they actually bake bread. Solomons ushers them to their seats, trading significant looks with the men who are bustling around now, a multitude of bakers, the number of which has the hair on the back of Tommy’s neck stand up. Something was definitely going on here, and he can tell by the set of Billy’s lips that he thinks that something’s wrong too. Arthur, though still looking put off by Solomons calling his younger brother pretty, seems more at home than the rest, has happily gulped down the offered rum, filling up a second glass before Tommy has a chance to stop him. 

When the bakers finally settle around them, Tommy’s stomach flips. He, Billy, and Arthur are seated on one side of the table, Arthur in the middle with Billy on his left, Tommy on the right at the end. There’s a few bakers sitting with them, but Alfie hasn’t moved from where he’d been standing the last few minutes, just standing behind a chair on the other side of the table. There are several men on each side, a few at their backs. 

Purposefully casual, Solomons begins speaking, gesturing wildly with his arms as he does. “The Passover started off way out there in the Far East, out in the sand, out in the desert, where my forefathers come from. You know, the Jews, the brews, whatever you want to call ‘em. A little speck on the horizon.” From directly behind Tommy, he can hear the footsteps of two men, and then the metal set of double doors shutting behind them, sealing them all inside. Tommy’s heart begins beating in earnest, alarms ringing in his head.

At his left, Billy leans in closer to Arthur, urgently whispers, “Arthur, Tom, this ain’t right.”

“Billy. Billy, don’t worry, mate, you know what I mean, if you want you can leave.” Solomons has turned his attention on the ginger haired man now, still perfectly calm. “If you need to go to the little boy’s room or sommat, you can leave. We’re gonna open ‘em in a minute—”

Arthur glances between Billy, Solomons, and then back at Tommy. Tommy blinks, brain working furiously as he considers their options. Despite what he said, Solomons didn’t seem likely to just let them go, if they asked. He had men outside, but it didn’t help much when they were deep in the bowels of this ugly place, confined within locked metal doors. They all had their guns, Ollie hadn’t searched them at the door, and Solomons hadn’t brought up the fact, neither, which probably had more to do with them being properly outnumbered if a fight did occur. No, their best course of action here was to wait and see, and to see if they were able to talk their way to peace. 

At Tommy’s silence, Arthur speaks. “He’s all right, he’s all right, Billy boy.”

“Do you want to leave?” Solomons stares blankly down at Billy, ignoring Arthur entirely.

Billy looks sullenly back at the man, but he follows Arthur’s lead. “No. I’m alright.”

“You want to stay?”

“I’ll stay.”

“You stay there, then, treacle. Okay. So, the Pharaoh, have you heard of him? He kept my people, the Jewish people, in slavery for thousands and thousands of years.” Solomons speaks with his hands, his cane still resting in his right as he gestures through the words, the rings on his fingers glinting in the low light. Tommy follows his movements as best as he can, while simultaneously listening for the men around him, a few of which are still in motion, still lurking around the outskirts. It puts him on edge. There’s a voice shouting in his head, repeatedly telling him to leave, to flee, that at the end of Solomons’ speech lies only death. 

Arthur points a finger across the table. “Persecuted race.”

Solomons’ eyes are wide as he continues. He sounds oddly touched by Arthur’s words, a hint of his earlier surprise at their introduction. “He did, he persecuted my race.” Arthur pats his hand to his chest, making a sympathetic face. Tommy wants to reach over and stop him fucking moving. “The killing of the innocent, right? Seder, this feast that what we is having here, right? So Seder is basically the day what when the Jewish angels decided, you know, that the evil fucking Egyptians had pushed their fucking luck.”

“Right.” Arthur nods along.

“It’s part of our tradition to do with Seder, right, that in order to make it good with God to kill a king, we have to carry out the _Korban Pesach_.”

“Right.”

“That is the ritual sacrifice of the Passover goat.” Solomons turns to the far side of the room, the three men turning with him. An old man has materialized out of nowhere with a fat white goat, bleating mournfully as the man tugs its body against his legs.

“It’s a goat!” Arthur exclaims, though he now sounds more confused than pleasantly conversational. The voice in Tommy’s head is screaming, ringing through his ears. 

“Yeah, and we’re gonna sacrifice it. Tonight. That’s part of the reason why we have to shut the doors, as well.” The man grips the goat’s neck, a long blade in his hand pressing against its throat as he maps out the best place to cut. “But this year, we thought we’d give the fucking goat a name.”

“You’ve named it?” Arthur’s smiling again. Tommy wants to throttle him. They’ve almost reached the climax, he can feel it in the air. Billy, on Arthur’s other side, is tapping his foot nervously against the ground. 

“We fucking did, yeah. After the _evil fucking_ Egyptian pharaoh.” Solomons, who had been speaking mostly to Arthur for the length of this conversation, turns now towards Tommy. There’s something black behind his eyes, an amalgamation of emotion that he cannot hide in his excitement to reach the finish. He looks _hungry_. Tommy’s breath sticks in the back of his throat.

Arthur crows, “the fucking enemy!”

“That’s right! You know what we called him?” Solomons smiles then, a feral, ravenous grin. He doesn’t look at Arthur as he addresses him, and Tommy knows that this is it. The old man clenches the blade in his hands, prepared for some signal that he’s sure is about to be given. This is it, this is it, this is it. 

“What’d you call him?”

Solomons opens his mouth to reply, but Tommy interrupts him, the words rushing out in one quick breath, not giving him the chance to hit the punchline. “Mr. Solomons? Could we have a word in private?”

The room freezes, and Tommy freezes with them, heart hammering wildly in his chest as he returns Solomons’ eye contact. All the bakers stand motionless around them, looking as if they didn’t know that putting a pause in the day’s plans was an option, didn’t think that anyone would dare stop the mad Jew from reaching his violent conclusion. The man, mouth still hanging open slightly, looks taken aback as well, but with Solomons, there’s always something else to him, and Tommy can tell as they stare each other down, that Solomons has come to the definitive conclusion that Tommy _knows_. 

“Yeah, alright.” Solomons finally grunts, his arms falling limply to his sides, as if disappointed by the interruption. He nods towards Ollie, who begins topping off all the glasses on the table with rum. The boy’s hand trembles as he pours. “Let's take a quick break, give that fucking goat a few moments more in the land of the living.”

Solomons turns on his heels, heading in the direction of the closed doors, which the two men standing guard open for him as he approaches. Tommy, trying very hard to keep himself from looking skittish, drains the few fingers of rum in his glass before standing up to follow. Before he goes, he shoots Arthur and Billy a sharp look, imploring the men to behave themselves while he’s gone. He wants to lean down and tell them to leave, should the opportunity present itself, but this conversation with Solomons is already going to be precarious— it wouldn’t help if word reached Solomons that his guests had fled while Tommy had him distracted. 

Solomons leads him down the mess of corridors, the heavy sound of his cane hitting the ground ringing through the air the whole while. Soon, he’s brought Tommy back to familiar ground, brought him to the main part of the bakery, headed towards his office. The further they get from the room with the table, the more deserted the place becomes. It’s as if his entire staff was occupied with the dinner in the back, leaving no one to guard the front of the place. 

The man’s office is dark, the blinds down, leaving the room in shadow. Solomons holds the door open for him, a show of fake politeness that would mean a great deal more if they both didn’t know that Solomons was planning on stabbing him in the back very soon. Tommy walks in, ignoring how his body tenses when he turns his back to the other man, feeling his eyes on him the whole while as he seats himself in his usual chair sat in front of the desk. At least this part is familiar, unlike the rest of this strange visit, at least this part he knows what to do. Solomons closes the door, giving them their privacy, despite the fact that there is no one around to hear them. He switches on an electric lamp as he crosses the room to his desk, releasing a deep breath as he settles in.

“Well then,” Solomons claps his hands together, leaning back in his chair, waiting. “Here we are. Nice private room for a nice private chat. What’d you want to talk about, sweetheart?”

Tommy wants to shift in his seat, uncomfortable under the scrutiny when there’s no one else around to diffuse the man’s attention. He doesn’t, sits ramrod still, not even letting his chest heave too much as he fixes the man with his emptiest stare. He considers his words carefully, because despite knowing the vague details of this for the past three weeks, he still hadn’t been able to come up with a firm plan of action for how to turn Solomons back to his side. He had ideas, of course, dozens of them, bouncing around in his head, waiting for something to stick. It’s Solomons’ unpredictability that's the problem. Tommy could go straight to business, offer the man more profits, more territory, more bookies at more races, but he could just as easily see the man laughing in his face at that. He needed to offer something more, something superior to what he could get from a partnership with Sabini. He had a few ideas regarding that, but he wasn’t sure how to go about that sort of thing, nor how willing he was to offer in the first place. 

He decides to start small, because he does have to say something, doesn’t he? “You named the goat.” He states, voice quiet, but not shy. 

If Solomons had been expecting something more, he doesn’t show it. “Yeah, we fucking did.” He nods, as if that were the end to it, as if Tommy couldn’t possibly guess as to the name he might have chosen for it. Arthur might be clueless when it comes to things like that, but Tommy certainly isn’t.

“All that talk about evil Egyptian pharaohs, the name of your enemies, it got me thinking.” Tommy needs something to do with his nervous hands, so he pulls out his cigarette case. Both men are quiet the entire while that Tommy pulls out, retrieves, and lights the cigarette, and Tommy doesn’t miss the way that Solomons’ eyes are drawn to his mouth as he rubs the cigarette against his wet lips. “It got me thinking, Mr. Solomons, as to who you might consider an enemy.”

The man makes a rumbling noise in his chest. “Call me Alfie, Thomas, think we’ve reached that particular threshold by this point.”

“Alfie,” Tommy leans back in his own seat, feeling as if he’s coiled tight and ready to spring. “I’m sure you’ve many enemies simply by virtue of being a Jew. Thought it made us quite the team, that. The _Jew and the Gypsy_.” He lifts the hand holding his cigarette, wiggling his fingers in the air as he speaks. He’s still speaking low, almost seductive, staring through half-lidded eyes. He knows what he’s doing, exactly what it looks like. “Partners in persecution, making the good people of London quiver under their bedsheets.”

Solomons smiles, and it’s sharp, mocking. He only now lifts his eyes from Tommy’s lips, having been fixated as he spoke. “Don’t talk to me about quivering and bedsheets, treacle, I might get a bit excited.”

“Wouldn’t want that, would we?” Tommy exhales a sharp laugh, just a puff of air, and he returns the man’s smile with a small one of his own. “Other notable enemies might include the British judicial system, the police at large, an inconsiderate neighbour who just keeps looking at you the wrong way.” He takes a drag of his cigarette as Alfie nods along, looking quite amused. Tommy steels himself as he goes on. “And, of course, Darby Sabini. Both your enemy and mine.”

Alfie doesn’t reply immediately, though he doesn’t look as worried or as nervous as Tommy’d like him to be. On the contrary, he still looks rather pleased with the situation, and not out of ignorance of the real dialogue occurring. But that’s Solomons for you. Trust that he’d get caught out for double crossing his partners and still have a smile on his face. “That’s the thing about enemies in our business, Thomas. You never really know who is your friend and who is your foe.”

Tommy’s nostrils flare, a glaring tell of his rising anger. A chip in his mask. “So you admit to it then? Sabini is no longer your enemy?”

“I admit to fucking nothing, mate.” Alfie leans forward onto his elbows, still bloody smiling. “But you clearly know more than what my dear Ollie has let on as to tonight’s festivities, I knew since the second you walked into my bakery uninvited, so let's get on with it. Say your fucking piece, eh?”

“I know you made a deal with Sabini,” Tommy leans in now too, as close as he can without climbing up on the desk, too suddenly furious to keep himself more contained. The man still looks too at ease, and it makes Tommy’s blood boil. “I know you invited my brother here as a part of that deal, likely so one of you can make a move on the Eden Club. What was it, eh? Was it something I did, or did you just miss Sabini that much?” He sneers, his lips twisting up into a cruel mockery of a smile.

“Ease up there, Tommy boy, ease up. You’re working yourself up into a right state, you are.” The man’s right, of course, Tommy was allowing himself to get swept away with his anger, an amateur mistake in their line of work. It just makes the rage burn hotter, having it pointed out to him like that, by a man who looks like he’s discussing the weather they’d been having with an old friend. He has to actively work to restrain himself, pushing it all down behind his clenched teeth. Alfie watches as he does so, his expression morphing from one of enjoyment, to something more pensive. “Sabini and I, we go way back, don’t we? Sure, I hate the fucking cunt, but that kind of relationship tends to withstand the tests of time, you know what I mean?”

“So our partnership,” Tommy speaks slowly, still working to hold himself still. He needs to make this work. “There was never any chance of it working, then. Just a big waste for the both of us.”

Alfie smiles, rueful this time. “Well, I wouldn’t call it a waste.”

“What would you call it then?”

“I would call it a seized opportunity to stare a bit longer at your pretty face, mate, before it had to go.”

Tommy takes another drag, his cigarette almost finished with how deeply he’d been pulling. His well honed instincts that had warned him about Alfie finishing his speech earlier are telling him that this too, is the moment they’ve been leading up to. He shoves down his remaining anger, there would be time for it later. He’s still got to make a deal. “My pretty face,” he rests his chin on his fist, elbow propped on the desk. “Hasn’t gone anywhere yet, has it?”

Alfie’s eyebrows raise, seemingly of their own volition. There’s something to the set of his face, a spark of renewed excitement in their situation. Alfie did a lot of flirting. Tommy didn’t tend to flirt back, had never intentionally peered over his lashes prettily at him. “What are you saying then, darling?”

“What I’m saying, Alfie, is that nothing has been done that can’t be undone.” Tommy leans back in his chair then, satisfied that he’d got him on his hook, keeping his eyes locked on Solomons. “We could go right back out there, could watch your man sacrifice a goat with no name, have a nice fucking dinner. Part as friends.”

“Friends?” Alfie’s face is blank, but Tommy can tell he’s considering it. 

“Friends,” Tommy confirms, nodding. “Allies. Partners, even.” 

“You’re offering me a deal.”

“I am.”

“And what exactly are you offering that’d put you ahead of my dear Italian friend, eh?”

“The chance to be an honourable man, live up to our previous agreement?” The two men smile at each other, chuckling at the little joke. Tommy tilts his face to the side, displaying the line of his jaw, letting his knees rest a bit further apart.

“Yeah, you see Tommy, honour ain’t really my thing.” Alfie’s still leaning on his elbows, and Tommy can tell that he’s noticing every one of his movements, cataloguing the distance between Tommy’s thighs, opening up sweetly. “But it looks to me, right, like you’re putting something on offer anyway.”

Tommy shrugs his shoulder, lightly. “Well, how else am I meant to compete with a friendship that _withstands the tests of time_ , eh?”

Alfie laughs at that, delighted by Tommy using his own words against him. He spins a ring around on his finger, looking as if he wants to reach out, to touch. “Just not sure you know exactly what you’re getting yourself into, treacle.”

Tommy feels like he’s vibrating now, a combination between nerves and something that he knows is arousal tearing through his veins. It’s true, he’s not sure what he’s getting himself into. Doesn’t mean he’s going to stop before he finds out. “It’s that, or we become enemies. And seeing as this is your bakery we’re in, I don’t fancy my current chances. Have to do something to increase the odds, don’t I?”

“Fucking hell, Tom.” Alfie finally pulls back in his chair, stroking his beard as he does so. “So that’s it, then? That’s what you think it is? A bullet to the head or a fuck you don’t actually want?”

“Does that matter?” Tommy keeps his voice steady, puzzled by the man’s sudden withdrawal. “To a dishonourable man such as yourself?” 

Alfie frowns at him. “Yeah, reckon it does, mate. If I have you in my bed, which to be clear, I would find great pleasure in and enjoy immensely, I’d have you there by your own choice. Not because you think I’m gonna fuckin’ shoot you.”

“Still sounds like it would be by my choice, Alfie.” 

Alfie doesn’t respond, face gone stony, far away. Tommy frowns under the scrutiny, unsure when exactly this had gone bad, just knows that it had. He’d thought that the man would respond best to his honesty, hadn’t genuinely thought that Alfie would mind, that he was the type of man who’d take him regardless of any objections. Should he have played it more sweet? A blushing gangster with a secret crush? Tommy didn’t know how, wasn’t a usual part of his seduction repertoire— he’s used to half glances out of the corner of your eyes, a mutual, unspoken understanding to find your own pleasure with another’s body and then going your separate ways. He needed a deal, and even he could admit to himself that this wasn’t an unpleasant sacrifice, could admit that he was drawn to the man sitting across from him. If he had to coax him into it, assure him that it wasn’t unwanted, he’d do it.

Tommy tries again, going for a less macabre approach. “I want us to be friends, Alfie. It’s less about throwing myself at your mercy than it is ensuring loyalty through… mutual pleasure.” He presses his cigarette into the ashtray, finally finished. With nothing else to do with them, he folds his hands neatly in his lap.

It takes a moment, but Solomons eventually replies, clearing his throat. “Alright, then.” He nods, eyes still distant. “Do it then. Take your top off, love.”

Tommy’s eyebrows shoot up. “Right now?”

“Yeah, right fucking now.” Alfie is practically glaring at him, all traces of his previous hesitation have disappeared as he sits back arrogantly in his chair. “Promise to not damage you too badly, not with your brother out there.”

He thinks that he’s calling Tommy’s bluff, that if he makes it too real, Tommy will back down. Well, Tommy hadn’t been bluffing. If Alfie wanted to fuck here, now, they’d fuck here and now. The man’s coarseness makes it all that much better. He hadn’t known how to respond to an Alfie Solomons who cared about his feelings. Tommy rises from his seat, shrugging out of his jacket and placing it on the back of his chair without taking his eyes off of Alfie. He removes his gun and its holster, placing it on a corner of the desk, still within his reach. He unbuttons his vest methodically, taking his time, drinking in every single microexpression on Alfie’s face, watching, as he too is watched. He lays the vest where his jacket is, pushes down his suspenders and undoes the button on his collar, placing it gently onto the desk as he continues the laborious process of stripping off his torso. Soon, he’s pulling off his undershirt, his chest finally bare. 

“C’mere.” Alfie’s growling, eyes darting rapidly between his face and his exposed chest, from the delicate bones at his collar, to pink nipples, to the soft skin of his belly. 

Tommy obeys, crossing around Alfie’s desk, standing in front of the still seated man. As soon as he’s within reach, Alfie’s hands are extended, warm hands exploring his body without asking for permission, with no trace of hesitation. He touches him as if he’s been owed this, as if Tommy had been withholding this from him and it had been his god given right. Tommy closes his eyes as he’s tugged in by his hips, fingers pressed tight into the bone there, the pinch offset by a flutter of soft kisses pressed into his ribs. This is not what he’d expected, not whiskered kisses, had expected to have been thrown face down onto the desk by now. Or shoved against a wall, or on the floor. But the way Alfie touches him is careful, almost proprietary, like you’d handle your more precious possessions. 

“Have you ever sucked a cock, Tommy?” Alfie murmurs, face still pressed against his chest, fingers wandering up to his nipples, tweaking sharply, making him gasp. 

“Yes,” Tommy answers, tilting his head up, looking at the ceiling as the man keeps working his sensitive nipples.

“Good, won’t have to show you, then.” Alfie leaves a final kiss to the center of his stomach, before he pulls him downwards, and this had been more what he’d anticipated. Tommy’s knees hit the floor painfully, letting out a soft cry as he steadies himself, his hands on Alfie’s thighs. The man is thick even here, can feel the muscles under his fingertips, everything about him powerful and strong. He watches Alfie rustling with his belt, pulling his cock from his trousers, not even hard yet. Tommy glances up, a bit unsure. He hadn’t been lying when he said he’d sucked cock before, he’d taken on the occasional male lover over the years (not with any regularity— it was just easier and safer to find women), but he couldn’t say he’d ever been in this unique position before. The men were usually on their knees for him, usually younger, with cocks that responded with interest at even the slightest provocation. He’d never had to encourage a man’s soft cock to life, never had to bother. 

“What,” Tommy breathes, raising one brow delicately, “don’t you like me, Alfie?”

The corner of Alfie’s lips twitch, but he doesn’t respond with words, just with the tightening squeeze of a hand gripping the hair at the crown of Tommy’s head. He guides Tommy’s face into his crotch, seemingly content just to see him down there, pushing his head against his thigh. With his free one, Alfie takes his cock in hand, slowly stroking it to attention as Tommy just kneels with his head on the man’s lap. He keeps Tommy just out of reach with his mouth, his breathing quickening as the man’s grip in his hair steadily gets tighter and tighter. Tommy’s own hands fall uselessly to his sides as he waits, going limp at the rough treatment. He licks his lips, gone dry as he watches.

At some arbitrary point, likely when Alfie’s grown tired of his hand, he pulls Tommy’s head back up and directs him towards his cock. Tommy couldn’t escape Alfie’s iron grip, and he doesn’t want to, either, an equal mix of anticipation and excitement clouding his brain. 

Tommy doesn’t struggle, doesn’t resist as Alfie slowly pushes his mouth onto his cock, the man above him cursing under his breath as Tommy readily unhinges his jaw to take him in. He waits to take Alfie’s lead, to wait and see if he’s just going to buck into the back of his throat from the start, but once Tommy’s lips are around his girth he slightly relaxes his grip on his hair. Taking that as permission to do whatever he’d like, Tommy begins suckling, steadying himself with hands on Alfie’s knees to let himself really get into it. He quite enjoys sucking cock, doesn’t do it nearly often enough, but it’s an action that always lets his brain drift away a bit. With a dick in the mouth, he doesn’t have to think about anything but the immediate actions of his body— of the right amount of suction to suit each individual man’s tastes, the best angle to keep his teeth from catching on silky skin, the way he uses his tongue. Some men like it wet, sloppy, like the build-up of it at the back of the throat, and some men just want to be sucked down, inhaled, an even pressure around their lengths as they piston in and out. He wonders what type of man Alfie is. 

If Alfie would give him a bit more leeway, he could really get into it, use his tongue teasingly around the base, at the fat vein running up, or mouth at his balls. As it is, Alfie’s hand in his hair isn’t letting him pull fully off of him, keeps Tommy’s mouth wrapped around him, so he does the best he can. He pushes down deeper, keeping his tongue as flat as he can as he takes him, coating the head of his cock in that thick saliva there. Alfie curses above him, and then he’s pushing Tommy’s face down, burying himself down his esophagus, slowly enough that Tommy can feel every millimeter in the muscle of his throat that slides past. Tommy’s gag reflex kicks in, and he spasms around the intrusion, feeling his eyes start to well up with tears as his nose is pressed into Alfie’s pubic hair and kept there. 

“That’s it, Tommy, that’s it.” Alfie’s stroking his cheekbone with his free hand, and Tommy can only just see the expression on the man’s face, derisive and mean. Tommy tries to shove off, pushing at his knees as his lungs begin aching for oxygen, and Alfie magnanimously wrenches his face back and off. Tommy sucks air in deeply, the saliva catching in his throat, making him cough and sputter. Before he can fully recover, Alfie smacks him hard across the face, other hand keeping him still as it tightens again in his hair. 

“Now that won’t fucking do at all, darling, will it?” Alfie darts his face down, pressing a kiss to the cheek he’d just slapped, but it doesn’t feel like an apology, more condescending. Tommy’s vision is slightly blurred with how much he’d teared up from just that first deepthroat, and he knows that there’s going to be more to come. He can’t tell if that makes him nervous or excited. He blinks away his tears, Alfie’s face coming clearer into view, and he wishes it hadn’t. He’s looking down at him with such a patronizing expression, looking at him so scornfully that Tommy can’t look back, clenching his eyes shut. He’s never backed down from someone glaring at him before, but that coupled with being held down on his knees makes it cut just that much deeper. 

He feels another slap, harder this time and he gasps, mouth falling ajar. “Open your fucking eyes and look at me, mate. Want to see those pretty blue eyes as you whore yourself out, right.” Alfie lightly smacks his dick against Tommy’s lips as he automatically obeys, opening his eyes just to watch as he’s shoved back down again. “And keep your hands behind your back.” Again, he rearranges his limbs without question, holding his wrists together behind his back. There’s something about Alfie that makes him want to listen to everything that he says, makes him want to please him. That in itself is a cause of concern— he thinks that Alfie could do anything to him and he’d just lie back and take it without question. If he thought a bit more about it, which he wasn’t planning to at the moment, he probably could have guessed that to begin with. Alfie’d been the one planning to betray him, after all, and here he was, on his knees. 

Alfie’s not giving him any chance this time, taking the momentum into his own hands. He swiftly and efficiently begins fucking his mouth, Tommy struggling to keep his gag reflex under control as the man fucks deep into his throat. He’ll go three or four shallow thrusts, then push down further, holding him there until Tommy begins twitching under his hands, keeping him there until he’s choking in earnest, just to pull off slightly and begin again. It’s a brutal rhythm, never fully letting Tommy regain his breath, or swallow any of the saliva, which answers his earlier questions as to whether or not Alfie liked it wet. He feels dizzy with the lack of oxygen and from the speed in which his face is jerked this way and that, the edges of his vision going a bit blurred. The sound of it is obscene, nothing but wet squelching and the soft grunts from the man above him, slipping out through Alfie’s full lips, which Tommy can see because he’s doing his best to keep his gaze. Occasionally he’ll slip and close his eyes, desperate to look away, but Alfie always notices, thrusting his hips up particularly hard, or pulling Tommy off completely to give another harsh slap. Alfie’s not being gentle here, is no longer handling him like he’s some precious object, more like something to be used and discarded. Tommy feels a sense of perverse pleasure from it. He’s never minded being manhandled during sex, and this is just a step further. He wants to release his wrists, wants to reach down and palm his half-hard cock through his trousers, but he knows Alfie’s eagle eyes will notice. 

Alfie pulls him off, more rough than before, finally releasing Tommy’s hair and shoving him backwards. Tommy tumbles back, landing on his arse, heaving and gasping for breath. He’d thought that he was going to take his pleasure with his mouth, that he might be about to finish, but it seems he’d been wrong. Alfie holds a hand at the base of his cock, looking down at him sat there on the floor. Tommy can’t even imagine the mess he must be, face coated in a combination of the run-off of his tears, of saliva and probably precome. His eyes would be weepy, his cheeks pink from the slapping and from the exertion, his lips swollen and fucked red. 

“Such a good boy, aren’t you?” Alfie’s voice is low, dangerous. He doesn’t know how he’s still so poised, so in control. It makes Tommy embarrassed, the state he’s in while Alfie sits above him, perfectly unbothered. “Come on, to your feet, then. Lets see this cock of yours.”

He flushes deeply, but slowly pushes himself off the ground with shaking legs, breath still not fully recovered. Once he’s vertical, Alfie’s tugging him in close again, positioning him so that he’s leaning against the desk before him. Alfie undoes his belt and trousers, Tommy clenching onto the edge of the desk with both hands as the man pulls him out. He’s harder than he should be for someone who’d had no contact, harder than he should be for just letting his throat be used. Alfie notices, of course, chuckling under his breath. “My, my, Tommy, you little slag. You enjoyed that, did you?”

Tommy doesn’t reply, head tilted up to look at the ceiling, anywhere but where the man is wrapping his hands around his cock. Alfie doesn’t like that, reaches up and grabs hold of his aching jaw, forcing him to look down at him. 

“No need to be sheepish, love. Quite like that about you, always knew you’d be a bit of a tart. It’s in those fucking eyes, yeah?” Tommy groans as Alfie takes him in his mouth, made to watch as his own cock disappears behind those indecent lips. Tommy’s arms flutter uselessly around him, unsure where he’s allowed to touch, so he settles for raking his fingers through his own hair. His scalp is sensitive from Alfie’s harsh treatment of it earlier, but the sting almost feels sweet as the man works him over with his tongue. He doesn’t take him in very far, not even close to as deep as he’d made Tommy go, grip still firm on Tommy’s jaw, eyes on him the whole while. 

With a quick slurp, Alfie pulls off, grinning now. It fills something inside Tommy with relief; he’s pleased with him, no more cold glares. “Yeah, those eyes. Sorry for goin’ on about them like I have, but just can’t help it, mate. They’re speaking to me.”

“Speaking to you?” Tommy hesitantly questions, and he winces as the words practically gargle out of his ruined throat. 

It just makes Alfie’s smile grow wider. “Yeah, speaking to me, treacle. They’re saying, ‘Alfie, throw me over this desk and fuck me ‘till I can’t fucking walk’, they are.” He strokes Tommy’s dick in his hand as he speaks, releasing his jaw and massaging his balls with the other hand. Tommy jerks his hips into the grip, staring down at the other man with slight anguish. “That sound like something you’re interested in, Tom?”

Tommy nods his head frantically before he can put any real thought into it. Just knows that he’d do fucking anything right about now, cock as hard in Alfie’s hands as it is. Alfie’s smile turns predatory, spinning Tommy around so fast that he falls forward without the other man even needing to push him. He lands on his elbows in a pile of papers, could probably do a bit of spying if he could get his eyes to focus enough to read. As it is, he just braces himself as Alfie tugs his pants the rest of the way off, thrown off the by way the man is seemingly bouncing between emotional extremes. He doesn’t know what to expect, doesn’t know if he’s going to just push into him dry, doesn’t know just how rough this is going to be.

Alfie finally stands up from his chair, his cock slotting wetly between Tommy’s tensed arse as he drapes himself over his back to press his lips to Tommy’s ear. “Sorry darling, gonna need to hear you say it.”

Tommy inhales deeply, shuddering against the man’s heavy weight pressing him down. The edge of the desk pushes painfully against his hipbones as he’s pinned, Alfie’s hand roaming around to his torso, tweaking at his nipples once more. He almost forgets what Alfie’s said, only remembering when Alfie begins pinching harder, still breathing in his ear. “Say what?” He chokes out, stupidly, biting at the inside of his lip as Alfie vindictively twists his sensitive nub. 

“I’m going to forgive your erroneous lapse of common fucking sense, mate, as I too am having a spot of trouble using my brain, right.” Alfie doesn’t sound like he’s having any trouble at all, is kissing the side of Tommy’s neck now, his hips rocking gently, rearranged so that his cock is sliding between his thighs. “You know what I want you to say.”

“You want me to tell you that I want it?” Tommy’s croaking out before he even knows he’s speaking, too gone now to stop himself, to think about what Alfie’ll do to him if he makes him angry again. He arches his back, pushing his arse up to meet him wantonly, like the whore Alfie thinks he is. “Tell you how much I’m aching to have you inside of me?”

Alfie groans, his hips stuttering. It makes Tommy impossibly harder, hearing the man finally affected, evidence that he’s not the only one gone on this. Tommy continues in a rush, no way he’s stopping now, not when he’s finally got a reaction. “Want you to bury that big cock of yours as deep as it will go, Alfie, and fuck me hard enough that I’ll be feeling you for days.”

“Is that right?” Alfie’s hand is creeping up his torso, fingers gliding up his neck to find his lips. Tommy lets his mouth fall open easily, allowing the man to plunge two fingers inside. He sucks on the digits, swirling his tongue around, getting them nice and wet. Once he’s satisfied with the coating, he pushes his arse back again, feeling the head of Alfie’s cock nudging his balls. Alfie makes a rumbling noise, deep and approving, and he fucks his fingers back into Tommy’s mouth a few more times for good measure before he’s withdrawing them. He pulls back then, Tommy repressing a shiver as the warmth of his torso is removed from his back, but he knows it’ll be worth it. 

He feels Alfie’s breath on his arse before his cheeks are pulled apart, Tommy doing his best not to wiggle his hips to encourage him to be faster. Alfie spits, directly onto his puckered hole, just as eager as Tommy, as he hastily slips a finger inside. Tommy moans, a bit theatrically, suspecting now that Alfie likes a bit of a show. It’s been awhile since he’s been taken like this, knows he’ll feel impossibly tight around Alfie’s thick finger, probing inside him. Tommy makes the appropriate noises as Alfie fingers him, one finger gradually making way for two, then a third, wedged in, even though it makes things just a bit too dry. Alfie’s courteous here, is careful with Tommy’s delicate insides, intent on finding that spot that makes him clamp around his fingers, Tommy’s hands clenching into fists. Once he does find it, Tommy’s moans become real, shuddering as Alfie works himself up to a rhythm, care making way once again for controlled brutality. Alfie, still working his fingers in and out, dips his face forward, using his tongue on his stretched rim, and Tommy actually squeals, legs jumping, making him almost clamber on top of the desk in his surprise. 

“That feel nice, darling?” Alfie’s muttering, not waiting for an answer, beard rubbing at Tommy’s soft thighs as he turns his head, biting sharply at one of his cheeks. It hurts, Alfie’s not holding back, teeth definitely leaving a mark before he returns his tongue to lick around his fingers. No one has ever done this to him, not even when he’s been fucked before, his knees trembling as he tries to keep himself from pushing his arse back for more. It’s a pleasure he’s never felt, and he realizes with a jolt that Alfie could take him over the edge like this, just finger fucking him with his face between his thighs. 

“Alfie,” Tommy huffs, breathily, “come on, I’m ready.” He doesn’t want to come like this, not before the man’s even made it inside of him, doesn’t want to get fucked after when he’s boneless and oversensitive. 

Alfie ignores him for a moment, but seems to agree, pulling his fingers out, spitting on his hole again for good measure as he stands. He pulls at Tommy’s sides, pulling him back up to his feet, holding him steady as Tommy’s legs aren’t currently equipped to hold his weight. Tommy allows himself to be repositioned, hands grasping at Alfie’s shoulders, clutching him like he can’t stand to let go as he’s lowered onto his back. Alfie wants to see his face while he fucks him, which Tommy wasn’t going to say, but he prefers it that way too. He wants to watch what Alfie’s doing to him, wants to watch him reach his climax. With his face pressed down against the desk, he’d felt powerless, but like this, he can see exactly how much the other man is affected. It makes him feel desired, wanted, like he’s an active participant in the sex instead of just the recepticle for Alfie’s aggression. 

Alfie spreads his thighs, pulling Tommy by the hips to the right position, to where his arse is just hanging off the edge of the desk. He looks focused, single minded as he takes his cock in hand once again, guiding it to sheathe within Tommy. Just before he reaches his destination, Tommy squeezes his legs around Alfie’s hips, stopping his progress with a firm hand on his chest. Alfie looks up, eyebrows furrowed questioningly.

Tommy clears his throat, looking down at him seriously. “This means we’re friends, Alfie. This means you don’t betray me.” He is in no position to make demands here, but he means it, means it with a sincerity that would be impossible for the man to not notice. He lies there, on the precipice of being skewered open, nothing stopping Alfie except the weak strength of Tommy’s thighs and the intensity of his eyes. 

Alfie stares back at him, expression gone unfathomable again. The dim light of the artificial lamp casts shadows on his face, making him look sharper, more eerie than he usually is, but Tommy’s not frightened, not even close. He needs to communicate that this is a fucking partnership, regardless of who is fucking who. 

Finally, Alfie nods. “Right. Friends it is, sweetheart. Long as you keep these legs open, yeah?”

Tommy’s lip curls upwards, cruel. “No. Even if I close them, even if they’re never opened to you again after tonight. You. Don’t. Betray. Me.”

Alfie sighs heavily, tries to push forward anyways, but with no heart to it, Tommy stopping him easily, weak, shivering legs and all. The man falls forward, resting his head on Tommy’s stomach, a show of defeat, of submission. Tommy reaches down, twisting his fingers in the man’s hair in a way that could almost be considered soothing, if either of them were the kind of men capable of bestowing comfort. 

“Yeah, alright.” Alfie’s nuzzling into his touch, the movement of it somehow both affectionate and frantic at the same time. He coos his words, almost a whine, sounding more desperate than Tommy’s ever heard him. “We’ll be friends, darling. And if you are ever feeling charitable enough to let your dear friend Alfie back into your generous arms, yeah, that’d be alright.”

Satisfied, Tommy relaxes his legs, letting them fall open again. Alfie glances up at him, the look on his face so hopeful, like a boy on his birthday, that Tommy can’t help but snicker out loud at him. Alfie furrows his brows, but he’s grinning now too, shaking his head slightly in mock exasperation as he sets to his task once more. “That’s a cruel trick, Thomas. Very, very mean.”

Tommy shifts his hips, bearing down in encouragement. “Think I’ll get you to sign over your business next time. Think you could get on with it?”

Alfie gives him a scathing look, as if he can’t believe the audacity of him, and Tommy raises his eyebrows, still smiling. But then Alfie’s pushing in, steady, not stopping until he’s buried deep to the hilt, burning through him instantly. They both groan, simultaneously, for their various reasons, Alfie because of the tight heat, Tommy because it feels like he’s being split cleanly in two. It hurts, because of course it hurts, only thing stopping it from being unbearable was the ferocity of Alfie’s earlier preparation. Inside of him, Alfie’s cock feels enormous, and he’d never been small to begin with. 

“Fuck,” Alfie groans, stretching the vowel out as long as he can, sweat beading at his brow. He’s not moving, completely still, but whether that’s for Tommy’s comfort or to stop himself from finishing right there and then is unknown. Tommy’s legs, previously wrapped around Alfie’s hips, have fallen down, heels smashing off the side of the desk, but Tommy doesn’t even notice. He writhes, just a bit, but stops himself as a jolt of sharp, hot pain crackles through his body, originating from somewhere deep in his hips. He sucks his breath in through his teeth, eyes clenched shut, but Alfie either doesn’t notice, or is giving him a bit of break from the eye contact thing. 

He tries to breathe through it, tries to quickly become accustomed to it, but it really has been a long time. He can’t remember the last time he’d been stuffed full like this, can’t remember why he’d thought he wanted to do this to begin with. It was just wave upon wave of discomfort, of a fullness that he could feel all the way in his fucking throat, and he wants to hide his face in his hands when he realizes that Alfie’s going to want to move at some point. The thought makes him feel dizzy, all previous traces of confidence chased off by the pain. 

Alfie notices. Tommy’s only barely clinging to awareness, can’t think about anything except the immense pressure inside of him, but he knows that Alfie’s watching him. His eyes are still closed, tears escaping through the force of it, but he can feel himself being observed. After a few moments of complete stillness between the both of them, he feels Alfie lean in closer, nudging his cock into a different angle in his attempt to get closer. Tommy’s face screws up at the change, despite how hard he works to keep his expression even.

Alfie lays soft kisses everywhere he can reach, on the black ink of his tattoo, to his collarbones, to his nipples, being devastatingly sweet about it. “‘S’alright, darling, it’s all fine,” Alfie’s back to cooing, coming up strangely and getting caught in the back of his throat, voicebox clearly unused to sounding kind. He runs his hands up and down Tommy’s sides, fingers sliding below him, between him and the desk, a cursory attempt to massage his lower back. Surprisingly, it does bring him some relief, if only just, fingers kneading into where he’s gone completely rigid, smoothing out some of the tension. “It’ll start to feel better sooner if we move, yeah? Chase away a bit of the hurt.”

Tommy finally dares open his teary eyes a bit, peering down at the man, slightly suspicious. But Alfie’s looking back up at him with warmth, as if he’s genuinely concerned for him, and it’s not like he isn’t right, anyways. The pain has reached its peak, isn’t going to get any worse, and it’s not going to do him any good for them to just lay there, motionless for the rest of the night. He knows objectively that there’s something redeemable about this, knows that there’s a reason he’d offered it in the first place. There’s something here for him, something that he’ll only find if he lets Alfie move. He nods, quickly, teeth biting into his lip. 

Alfie pats his cheek, settling his hands onto the desk around Tommy, and he starts with just a gentle rocking of his hips. He doesn’t pull out an inch, just nudges his cock around inside of him, trying to get him accustomed to it. Some feeling is gradually coming back to Tommy’s numb legs, making him feel just a bit more in control of his body, a bit more ready for what is going to come. He nods his head to himself, running a hand through his hair, trying to stare down between their bodies. He can’t really see what’s going on, it’s the wrong angle and his cock, gone a bit soft from the pain, is in the way.

“Just go,” Tommy manages to get out, and even he can’t tell if he’s saying it so they can get to the good part, or if he just wants it to be over faster. Alfie’s looking at him, disbelief written clearly on his face, but he does as instructed, begins slowly dragging his cock out. The slide of it burns inside of him, intensifying when Alfie’s pushing back in, steady and measured strokes. Tommy settles into it, letting his eyes fall shut again as he is slowly, gradually fucked. 

“Gonna move you,” Alfie says, after they’ve reached a rhythm, hands moving once again to his sides, gripping his waist. Tommy doesn’t even open his eyes as he’s repositioned, Alfie guiding his hips so that he’s arching his back more, and in return, he hears Alfie’s feet shuffling as he tries for a different angle. He stays inside him the whole time, but when he restarts his pace, Tommy shudders. “Yeah?” Alfie asks, voice light, curious, prodding his cock right back up into him, into a newly unearthed spot inside of him that makes Tommy simultaneously loosen around him and clench up every other muscle. Tommy’s nodding again, mouth falling open wide as Alfie aims right for that spot, thrusting a bit harder now, coaxing soft whines out of him. He both hears and feels Alfie chuckle above him, bracing forward on his hands. “Don’t worry, love, Alfie’ll find your sweet spot for ya, no need to move a muscle. Knew you’d be a fucking princess about this.”

Tommy’s eyes fly open, feeling slightly outraged, but his snarky reply catches in his mouth at a particularly (and definitely purposefully) harsh thrust. Alfie’s switched back to being slightly mean, it seems, now that he’s no longer concerned about Tommy enjoying himself, now that he’s found the way to make him fall apart. Tommy lets himself melt into it now, now that the pain has ceded and allowed pleasure to curl through his body. He feels a bit silly, a bit over dramatic now. See, it wasn’t so bad. It wasn’t bad at all, actually, Alfie very knowledgeable and practiced in the exact way to roll his hips, knows the exact amount of force to exert as Tommy sinks into it. 

“But you are fucking gorgeous, aren’t you? Suppose no one minds if you just lay there and take it, not when the view is this good.” Tommy rolls his eyes at him, pushing himself up a bit on his elbows, if only to give the appearance of participating, as he’s still not sure he could move his lower body on his own accord. 

“Never gotten any complaints,” he lies, because he does tend to be a bit lazy, letting his partner do most of the work. Why wouldn’t he? They’re the ones who want him to begin with, right? “Anyone ever tell you that you talk too fucking much?”

“Might’ve heard that, maybe once or twice. Don’t pretend you don’t fucking love it, mate.” Alfie reaches for Tommy’s right leg, hitches it over his shoulder casually, as if putting on a scarf. When exactly had he stripped out of the rest of his clothing, Tommy wondered, liking the look of his pale white thigh stretching out on his (mysteriously tanned) shoulder. Must’ve been when he was distracted on his stomach, lost in the flurry of movement. Tommy was usually more observant, and he resigns himself to observing now. Alfie’s barrel chested and broad, light hair feathering over his defined pectoral muscles, all man. Tommy wants to reach out and touch, drawn to the masculinity dripping from him, but knows he’ll lose his balance if he tips forward now, so he just eyes his chest greedily. He’s distracted then by Alfie slamming into him, fingers pressed tight into his hips, sure to leave bruises. “Gone off somewhere in your head, eh? You’ll stay right where you are until I’m done with you.”

Tommy bites back a groan as he’s pummelled savagely in retaliation for the alleged slight. “Was just enjoying the— fuck— the view,” he manages, doesn’t know why either of them are fucking bothering with making conversation right now, would be happy for them to just shut their mouths and fuck. However, he knows, with complete and utter certainty, that that isn’t going to happen here, not as things were. Slyly, an idea begins forming in his mind with regards to Alfie shutting _him_ up, and he lets himself drop backwards onto the desk, head banging dully against an unknown bauble as Alfie continues fucking into him, unbothered by the movement. 

“A compliment, finally.” Alfie is sounding a bit harried, how you’d expect someone to sound when they’re really putting their back into some strenuous activity. “Thought only poison could come out of them venomous fucking lips.”

Tommy reaches down for the leg not over Alfie’s shoulder, grips himself by the soft flesh at the back of the knee, pulling himself further apart. “Poison can’t come from something venomous,” he smirks, “thus the distinction.” 

Alfie makes a strange choking noise, like a laugh that he doesn’t want to escape, rolling his eyes dramatically enough that it makes Tommy’s ribs ache from his own badly suppressed laughter. Alfie’s pace falters with it, both of them getting embarrassingly caught up in the talking. Tommy doesn’t think he’s ever laughed or teased this much during sex. Isn’t quite sure what to make of it, but he doesn’t think he minds. He’s getting fucked, rather spectacularly he can admit, now that he’s passed the initial ache, and he keeps _laughing_. Alfie groans as Tommy sniggers, the feel of his laughter around his still buried cock probably a bit uncomfortable, but Tommy’s unconcerned. 

“Maybe you’re right, just this once.” Alfie’s hips are still twitching as he hesitates, as if he can’t bear being still for too long. “Maybe we should just shut our fucking mouths, eh?”

Tommy grins, purposefully clenching tight around him, twisting his hips enticingly as Alfie moans through it. He feels delirious on the pleasure of having Alfie inside him, makes him act foolishly, like a brat. “Why don’t you make me?” He challenges, tilting his chin back, an invitation that isn’t terribly subtle, but one that Alfie accepts graciously. One big hand reaches forward to wrap itself around his throat, the completion of Tommy’s earlier idea for quiet, though Alfie doesn’t know that. He doesn’t grip too tightly, a professional when it comes to knowing exactly where to press to choke the life out of a man, just hard enough to hinder the progress of Tommy’s blood rushing through his body. Hand placed where they both want it, Alfie returns to his business of fucking him absolutely senseless, slamming into him with a savage grunt that rings through Tommy’s ears. 

Head thrown back and pinned to the desk by his arse and his windpipe, Tommy can focus on his own unravelling, on the man fucking him apart, crushing into his body like he owns him. Tommy likes the idea, on a very theoretical level, likes the idea of being bound to the mad bearded gangster inside of him. It’s why he’s let him control this, why he’d kneeled down and placed his hands behind his back prettily. He likes the idea of submitting to Alfie, the pantomime, the theatricality of bearing your body, your heart, your throat. He’d never truly go for it— they both knew it, Tommy could never be truly satisfied if his control had been snatched away from him, and Alfie _recognizes_ it. Recognizes his desire to submit, but that the small, snarling, feral creature that Tommy keeps chained up inside of him would never let himself be tamed.

It’s vanity, but Tommy thinks of himself as his body is taken, as the lack of blood flow to his brain summons up swirling clouds and visions of himself in similar states of depravity, of sin. He sees himself in all these visions, but they’re only flashes of reality, of half-forgotten memories and fantasies he’d conjure with one hand on his cock and the other reaching up between his legs. Alfie’s in some of them, and he’s alone in others, sometimes accompanied by shadow men and women who all want to watch as the strings holding him like a marionette are cut and he tumbles. 

Fingers squeeze tighter around his neck. “What did I say about going away in that head of yours?” Alfie’s beautiful above him, soaked in sweat from his effort, and Tommy, even from where he lays below him, wants to fucking ruin him. Tommy’s lightheaded and vengeful, half-crazed himself, as if Alfie’s driving his own madness into him with the pounding of his cock. Tommy reaches out, letting his leg snake around the man’s back, pulling him in closer as he digs his nails into Alfie’s shoulders. Alfie’s face, hovering just in front of him, screws up with pain as Tommy breaks the skin, scratching painful welts down his back as he clamps down on his cock. He’s just within reach, so Tommy surges up with his lips, choking himself on the tight grip around his neck, but it’s worth it as he and Alfie share their first kiss, all teeth and tongue as Tommy snarls into it. 

“You mad little thing,” Alfie sounds incredulous when he breaks away for air, his eyes wide, reverential. He grits his teeth, flinching as his hips stutter again. “I’m about to fill you up, you sweet fucking devil.”

Warning heeded, Tommy unsheathes one of his hands from the man’s back, retracting his claws to grasp at his own dick, flushed and angry between them. Tommy’s fingernails are tipped in blood, almost doesn’t see it in his haste to jerk himself to completion, but the image in his head of a bloodied hand wrapped around his cock coupled with his brain's lack of oxygen is nearly enough to bring him over the edge. As it is, he just needs a few more seconds before he’s spilling between their bodies, gasping sharply but otherwise silent as he goes pliant and loose, all his limbs except the one still secured over Alfie’s shoulder falling limply. Alfie fucks him through it, the intensity of his rapt attention burning through the haze of his orgasm, never letting Tommy forget that he is there and he is watching. 

Alfie loosens the grip on his throat, but doesn’t fully let go, seems to just like the picture of it, maybe likes the feeling of Tommy’s neck working under his hand. Once he’s back in his head enough to do so, Tommy fixes his gaze back on Alfie, staring up at him with cold eyes and a wicked smile. “What you waiting for, Alfie? Finish in me.” He growls, and Alfie thrusts once, twice, then comes, driving himself in as deep as he can go to do so. Tommy’s insides twitch and spasm around it, oversensitive but willing to bear the burden. For a second before he comes, Tommy isn’t sure if the man is going blink when he does, he’s looking at him so fervently— but the man is only human, and so when he closes them, Tommy’s only a bit disappointed. Alfie’s not quiet for his climax, not like Tommy, shouting his pleasure, so Tommy shuts him up by capturing his open mouth in another kiss. Alfie continues moaning into his mouth, uncoordinated and messy lips not even pretending to kiss back, just gasping and heaving as Tommy takes control. He kisses unresponsive lips until they’re responsive again, slow, languid and indulgent in Alfie’s hot little office, stench of their sex filling the air. There’s something digging into Tommy’s back, feels like a pen or something inconspicuous enough that he hadn’t noticed during the fucking, but that he feels now that his hunger had been satiated. Now that he thinks about it, there’s a lot of tiny details that he’d ignored in the heat of the moment, namely that his body _hurts_ , and not just where he’d expected. He knows he’s got bruises on his hips, definitely on his heels, from where they’d slammed against the desk, possibly around his neck. He just hopes the bruises take their time to really appear, it’d be hard to explain to Arthur and Billy why he’d disappeared with Alfie— Solomons— and reappeared ruffled and obviously choked. At least he didn't have to worry about them seeing the bite mark on his arse.

 _Arthur and Billy_ , Tommy thinks, sighing into Alfie’s mouth. How long had they been gone? He honestly doesn’t know how much time had elapsed in the rush of fucking, but knows that it has been too long. Knowing that Alfie’s still drifting through his post-orgasm bliss, Tommy pushes gently at the man’s shoulders, twisting his face away so he’s mouthing at Tommy’s cheek. Flushing slightly, Tommy remembers that Alfie had slapped him earlier, and that his face is probably a right state. He’d better not have a mark in the shape of Alfie’s hand on his face, or else he’s going to kill the man, regardless of their agreement of friendship. 

“C’mon, Alfie. Get off me.” Tommy’s voice is cool, trying to soften the words by rubbing soft circles on the man’s arms as he encourages him off. Alfie blinks slowly, clearly trying to return to himself, looks a bit surprised to even see Tommy still there under him. “We’ve dinner plans, remember?”

“Yeah, alright, alright. Keep your top on.” Alfie grumbles, heaving his weight up, sliding his softened cock out of Tommy, both men wincing slightly at the sensation. Once standing, Alfie dusts his hands off, as if he’d just been digging in the dirt instead of fucking. He surveys Tommy, still lying across the desk covered in come, a serious look on his face. “Well. You look well fucked, don’t you, mate?”

Tommy scowls, gathering all of his strength and sitting up on the edge of the desk. Pain shoots through his hips as he does, making him scowl even further. “Generally insist that people stop calling me ‘mate’ after they’ve come inside of me.” He slides off the desk, rather satisfied when his legs don’t immediately give out beneath him, and hold his weight with only minimal shaking. He groans about it, regardless.

Alfie grins, but he’s turned away to collect some of their clothing, tossing Tommy a handkerchief he’s procured from his coat pocket after wiping at his brow. “You let a lot of men come inside of you, then? Don’t make me jealous, you little slag. Besides,” he’s pulling on his pants and trousers, all in a rush, but Tommy thinks it’s less about the urgency of the situation than it is him just not particularly caring about what he looks like. “We _are_ mates now, right? Just sealed the deal on our friendship.”

Tommy locates his own pants and trousers, right where Alfie deposited them in a crumpled heap on the ground. He eyes them, doesn’t look forward to bending over to pick them up. He shoots Alfie a look, who has turned back to face him now that he’s buttoning up his shirt. Alfie’s grin grows impossibly wider as he realizes Tommy’s situation, stepping over to pick up the clothing for him as Tommy mops up the come on his stomach and pretends that he didn’t just silently ask for Alfie’s help. He nods his head slightly in acknowledgement as he takes the clothing, but Alfie doesn’t let it go, grabs Tommy’s outreached hand and tugs him in for another kiss. Tommy lets him do it, insides squirming as he tries to gather himself together, collecting all the frayed strings that had been cut away from him. He’d started to feel a bit panicked by what they’ve done, by what he’s started here, but Alfie’s warm mouth helps, calms him down and erases his scowl. Whatever happened here has already happened, it would do him little good to dwell on it. And he’s got what he came for; a ceasefire, a truce. Regardless of how it happened (and perhaps a bit _because_ of how it happened), Tommy would be able to move forward from here, and figure out any of the fallout. When he pulls away, Alfie chases after his lips for a second before bowing his head and stepping away again. 

“And I meant what I said before,” Alfie continues, as if nothing at all had happened between when he’d been speaking. He’s fully dressed now, as Tommy pulls on his pants, wincing minimally. The man still looks as if he’d been through a tornado, shirt untucked, looking exasperatingly different from what he’d looked like before. “If you’re ever feeling generous, pick up the phone and give us a ring, yeah? I might even consider driving all the way up to that fucking city you call home.” 

“How gracious of you.” Tommy’s got more layers to put on, but he now that he’s got his trousers pulled up, he heads towards Alfie, rolling his eyes. Without asking permission, Tommy begins tucking Alfie’s shirt back into his pants, straightening out the fabric, pulling at the wrinkles. “And I will consider that offer, in the spirit of friendship, _mate_.” He smacks his lips, feeling Alfie’s puff of laughter across his face as he tries to decide if the man is presentable or not. It’ll have to do. Tommy turns away, has to begin the process of getting back into his own suit and trying to make himself not look as if he’d just been ravished for the better part of an hour. Honestly, how no one had come knocking on Alfie’s office door, he had no idea.

Alfie, in no rush to rejoin their party, leans against his desk, watching as Tommy dresses. At least he’s helpful, silently passing each item of clothing to Tommy as he needs it, looking as if he’s trying to memorize his body before it’s concealed within his clothing. He might as well. They both know that he might never see it again, just like they both know that he probably will. 

“Right,” Tommy says, after he’s smoothed down his hair a bit, cleaned the blood from his fingernails (which he'd done, slightly unsettled by his own ferocity). He’s sure he still looks noticeably different, but there’s really nothing to be done about it, besides setting the whole building on fire and slipping out the back, but that might be a slight overreaction. Besides, Alfie probably wouldn’t like that. “How do I look?” 

“Like an angel,” Alfie croons, picking up his cane again and widening his arms, back in performance mode. Tommy waits to see if the mask will slide back into place, but Alfie’s eyes are warm, open, as they stare at each other. 

“Thought I was a devil,” Tommy almost blushes at his own reference to Alfie’s words, said at the height of their passion. He doesn’t, though. He’s back in performance mode too.

“Hm,” Alfie rumbles, and Tommy knows what that feels like now, reverberating against him, deep in his chest. “Suppose you’ve a bit of both. Nothing wrong with that, in my humble opinion.” Alfie strides forward, opening the door once more for Tommy, gesturing politely. Just as Tommy’s passing, he adds, “you do still look well fucked, though, sweetheart.” Tommy ignores him.

*

They go back to dinner. Tommy only limps a bit on the way there, and not at all when they rejoin their men. They’d expected the room to be tense, shocked by their long absence, but seems their soldiers had something else in mind. They’re all chatting and laughing, Arthur clearly very drunk, Billy deep in conversation with a red-faced Ollie, who is unsteady even while sitting. They’ve started the celebration without them, it seems, and Tommy suppresses his smile at the sour expression on Alfie’s face. “The fucking nerve of ‘em,” the man grumbles, as they stand there, still unnoticed in the doorway. “On duty, and everything. Supposed to be fucking ready to—”

“Ready to what, Alfie?” Tommy interrupts, peering over at the man, a politely interested expression on his face. Alfie frowns at him, but doesn’t continue, and they stare at each other until they’re both quietly smiling.

“Alright,” Alfie clears his throat, louder this time, as he steps heavily into the room. “Let’s kill this fucking goat!”

*

They kill their nameless goat. Food and more rum is served. Tommy lets himself get a bit drunk, satisfied, that at least for the moment, that no one is coming to kill him. Later, he’ll hear about Sabini, showing up in person at the Eden Club, but turning around empty-handed when faced with the veritable army posted there. Later, he’ll call Alfie from his home in Birmingham, and they’ll arrange to meet to make a plan on how exactly they’re going to take down Sabini. Later, they’ll fall into Tommy’s bed, and they’ll fuck again, slow and hard, full of laughter.

For now, he’ll drink his rum, and he’ll ignore the feeling of slick between his thighs. Alfie smiles at him across the table. Tommy smiles back. 

**Author's Note:**

> i like to imagine that in this universe alfie ends up betraying tommy anyways. maybe to a lesser extent than betraying him to the priest, but still. feel like it lessens the experience of tommy/alfie if backstabby boy isn't constantly betraying tommy, and tommy isn't hearteyes for him regardless. hope u enjoyed!!!!!!!!!!!!


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